


Your Loving Arms (Keeping Me From Harm)

by suqua (wuhnona)



Series: Bondverse Napollya [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputation, Amputee Napoleon Solo, Anal Sex, Bottom Napoleon, Condoms, Cover, Cover Art, Disabled Character, Fluff and Smut, Hospitals, Human Trafficking, Illya is the 00 Agent, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Injury, M/M, Napoleon is the Quartermaster, Napoleon's Evil Exes, Non-Graphic Violence, Partners to Lovers, Q Branch, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Slow Build, Snapshots, That Was The Plan Anyway, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Top Illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-06-28 16:31:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19816150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wuhnona/pseuds/suqua
Summary: Illya stands, taking a little childish pleasure when Napoleon has to look up to keep his gaze. Illya studies Napoleon briefly before holding out a hand. “Q,” he says, expression barely changing to allow a flicker of warmth in his otherwise frosty reception. The barest of acknowledgement, but if Napoleon had read Illya’s file as he suspects he has, he would know that his acknowledgement-- even the slightest-- was hard-earned.Napoleon takes it immediately. “004,” he says, shaking Illya’s hand. His bright smile is almost blinding, tiny lines creasing the corners of his eyes.





	Your Loving Arms (Keeping Me From Harm)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from lyrics of the title song for Skyfall, by Adele. Cover Art PhotoEdited by uh, Me? 😳
> 
> [See End Notes for details on tags used above.]

[Image Description: Photo Edits made into a Fanfic Cover. In the center are two 1 white edged photos that are angled toward each other, one photo of Napoleon and one of Illya. Both are facing forward. Illya on the left in a tuxedo, looking to his right and away with a thin smile. Napoleon's photo is on the right and he is in a dark turtleneck sweater and glasses Napoleon is smiling slightly, also looking to his right and toward Illya's photo. In the bottom center is an image originally from the title sequence from Skyfall. The full body silhouette of a male figure is between the photos being pulled down underwater by an oversized hand pinching his right foot between it's pointer finger and thumb while his arms are loosely up above his head. The background is blue and faded, the entire image's blue color scheme along with faint bubbles in the background hinting toward being underwater. Text on top is the title, "Your Loving Arms (Keeping Me From Harm)" and bottom right text reads, each on separate lines: "Napollya. James Bond AU. ao3 @suqua (wuhnona)." End Description.]

* * *

There was a man sitting on the same bench that Illya had been instructed to wait. A handsome man, dressed in enough designer clothing that Illya could only assume he had wandered off from some kind of photo shoot or straight off the runway. Illya appraises his clothing briefly, deciding the outfit is well-chosen, before sliding his gaze away. Walking past, Illya took the next bench over from _The Fighting Temeraine_ , closing his eyes a moment before glancing back over at the man ostensibly taking Illya’s seat.

The man had one hand over his mouth, fingers curled, opposite hand holding onto his elbow. The very picture of a man analyzing and appreciating the art in front of him, Illya thought, someone who was more suited to being at The National Gallery than he was. He hadn’t stepped into a museum outside of the occasional mission in many years. Perhaps the man was an art professor, though Illya wasn’t inclined to believe a professor in an art gallery on a weekday morning would be able to afford the head-to-toe couture that the man wore. The jacket the man had draped over the bench next to him was worth somewhere around five figures, alone. Illya turned his gaze forward, unseeing of the art in front of him, aiming to pay the man no more mind as he waited for his meeting.

But eventually, fifteen minutes after Illya’s new Quartermaster was supposed to have arrived, movement caught his eye as the man stood to look at the painting a little closer, a pair of thin-rimmed glasses withdrawn from somewhere and slipped onto his handsome face. Another glimmer of metal caught Illya’s eye and he glanced down, noting the man had a particularly eye-catching and beautiful prosthetic leg that well-complemented his outfit. The metal matched the eyeglass frames, Illya realized.

The man suddenly dropped his hand from his face, twisting his forearm to glance at a heavy wristwatch and murmur something unintelligible from where Illya sat. He looked to the one side, eyes sweeping the hall in that direction, then toward Illya. The man looked directly at Illya. Something flickered in his gaze and in a few short steps, he was standing in front of Illya.

“004,” the man said with a grin, holding out a hand. Illya, all thoughts halted, looked up at him with a touch of confusion clear on his face. The man’s hand drops. “Napoleon Solo, I’m your new Quartermaster.”

“They... must be joking.”

Napoleon tilts his head. “Why? I mean, I know I forgot my lab coat this morning...”

“You are American. And dress like you are... on runway.”

Napoleon appears caught by surprise and actually laughs. Illya reflects a moment too late that he misspoke... Napoleon didn’t simply dress like it, he was a very beautiful man and the cut of his luxurious clothing was not unlike a frame surrounding a work of art.

“ _‘Fashion is instant language_ ’,” Napoleon said, smiling around the shape of the quote from Miuccia Prada. He shrugs one shoulder. “You and I are both expatriates for very different reasons, 004.” He was clearly not bothered by Illya’s reluctance to accept him. “Please trust me when I say my place of birth- and background- will not deter me from doing my very best work for MI6.”

That, in few words, makes it easier.

Illya stands, taking a little childish pleasure when Napoleon has to look up to keep his gaze. Illya studies Napoleon briefly before holding out a hand. “Q,” he says, expression barely changing to allow a flicker of warmth in his otherwise frosty reception. The barest of acknowledgement, but if Napoleon had read Illya’s file as he suspects he has, he would know that his acknowledgement-- even the slightest-- was hard-earned.

Napoleon takes it immediately. “004,” he says, shaking Illya’s hand. His bright smile is almost blinding, tiny lines creasing the corners of his eyes.

20.

“004, this equipment is invaluable to MI6. Bring it back, even if your life is in peril,” Napoleon had instructed, fully grinning and fully serious as he sent Illya off on the first mission they were working together. Illya had barely spared the man another look as he left, but on mission he had found the equipment all highly functional and remarkably good that he found he actually wanted to bring them back. Unlike most of the 00s, he actually had a decent track record with his equipment. He almost always brought every piece intact and when he didn’t, he would often bring back the remains.

This time had proven to be one of the latter, and worse.

When he walked back into Q Branch, fresh off the road of a long drive, Illya was coated in a thick layer of soot and there was a patch of slightly crunchy bit of hair on one side of his head that meant he was making an appointment with his barber as soon as possible. His suit, _normally_ a handsome tuxedo that was _normally_ a very nice dark blue, was shredded in many places. When he walked down the hall, the window looking into Q Branch showed him Napoleon discussing something with one of his technicians, gesticulating toward a large wall that didn’t have anything on it, currently.

Opening the door, Illya fought back a grimace when Napoleon did the same double take that Illya had been getting ever since he arrived at MI6. He sees the Quartermaster give him a once over, possibly assessing for injury but more likely taking in the ridiculous, almost cartoonlike appearance Illya had found himself in.

“Don’t say anything,” Illya said warily, crossing the room. “Where do you want these?”

The technician slunk off, Napoleon turning more fully and walking toward Illya slowly with both lips drawn back between his teeth for a moment. Judging by the bit of smile Illya could see on his cheeks, he was probably smothering a bit of laughter. His eyes showed it anyway, tiny laughter lines plain as day.

"You can put them right here,” Napoleon said with a slight hitch to his voice, stopping beside a table with a bare tray on it.

Illya removed the experimental gun he had been sent with, the barrel broken off next to it. Next, an electronic device he’d used to bypass several security systems that now resembled only a rectangular piece of melted plastic. Lastly, his radio- which was fully intact thanks to the fact that he hadn’t even used it.

Napoleon nodded down at them appreciatively despite most of their condition. “Thank you, 004. So... what happened? Something... _perilous?_ ”

Rolling his eyes, Illya turns to leave.

“004.”

He turns back.

Napoleon’s smiling, arms crossed. “Thank you for these, even like this, they’re helpful for me. Now I know to make them a bit more... fireproof. And you know, I said the same thing to 007 and you couldn’t _guess_ what kind of animal he let _eat_ my equipment...”

Illya chuckled. “I probably could not.”

“Oh, and please try to sit on M's nice white couch for your debrief. Please.”

“I... will do my best,” Illya says with amusement, turning again and heading for the door. It’s only as he’s leaving that he pauses, pushing the door open once more. “What animal did Bond get into drunken fistfight with this time?”

Napoleon rolls his eyes. “A komodo dragon, if you can believe it.”

Shaking his head, Illya chuckled as the door began to close.

Illya almost misses Napoleon call, “Thanks again, Peril!”

15.

The group's hideout was an old hotel in the mountains, refitted with a number of modern conveniences like the security cameras and Wi-Fi that let Q keep an eye out for any remaining threat. They'd gotten there early enough that they were clear to avoid a snowstorm that could have prevented any rescue. While thwarting the group on his own, Illya had discovered that the group planned to kidnap the children of politicians but without time to stop it completely. The leader must have panicked and taken the group of unrelated children whose families were all in hysterics. 

Five pairs of eyes look up at Illya as he shoves the door open. Every single child looked up at him with fear and Illya was suddenly very glad he had already holstered his gun. They all move closer together and away from him. Swallowing back an angry growl at the captors, Illya forces his features into neutrality first before trying a smile, the adrenaline cooling within him as he takes a quiet breath to get full control of his temper.

 _"Peril,"_ comes Napoleon's voice in his ear, " _Are they all there?_ "

A quick scan of the crowd and Illya is sure they all are and murmurs an affirmative, kneeling to reduce his height. "Hello," Illya says gently to them. "Bad men who... who kept you all here. They're all gone and I'm going to help you go home."

The children stay quiet, huddled together, looking among each other with uncertainty.

Illya swallowed. "They are scared of me," he said quietly. He hears Napoleon flip through papers, muttering to himself. Then, he tells Illya about one of the children, the one who should be the oldest. A Russian child. The men who had taken them all spoke English, so he asks for them using their Russian nickname. 

A child in the center gasps, eyes widening. When their mouth opens, it's hesitant, but respond in Russian. Illya smiles much more naturally hearing his mother tongue in a young native speaker's inflection. He sounded the same, once upon a time. He responds warmly, telling them his name and that they'd both been born in Moscow. The child's eyes scrunch up, filling with tears.

Soon that child clings to him, a couple others moving over hesitantly, slowly starting to trust him. In his work, taking extremes to accomplish a goal- ending lives, any sort of destruction, often made him feel regret. Looking over the mix of sad, scared faces that seemed to have accepted him, he feels none.

M's voice cuts through, distaste in his tone. " _Good lord. How many of them are there?_ _004_ , _You definitely have the plans_?"

"Confirmed," Illya said, petting a hand on the child's back as they calm. A couple of the children are holding young ones, two babies. "We will need extraction as soon as possible. I doubt they've been taken proper care of."

" _Very good, 004. The PM's been screaming at me all morning but it's worth it seeing all present and accounted for. And the plans, of course. Carry on, Q. Good work. (Christ, they're all younger than_ my grandchildren _...)"_

The child sniffles once more before letting go, looking behind them at the children. One looks up and ask Illya if they're going to leave. He nods."Few more minutes. We are making sure we have safe way home."

Napoleon tells him to check on the smaller ones, Illya doesn't like the low temperature of one baby, so he tucks it into his coat and zips it most of the way. The baby makes only a little noise, snuggling into the warmth. Neither baby is feverish and both are breathing well, so he's assured they should be fine and that medics would be waiting for them.

"Who are you talking to, mister?" one of the children finally asks when he's just finished reporting the other infant's condition to Napoleon.

Illya pauses. "My friend, Q," he says, tapping next to his ear. "He's calling me on the phone, helping make sure it's safe to leave."

" _Well, my_ friend _, we have finished checking all the cameras in the complex. You are good to go, evac the kids ASAP. I'm ready to direct you, when you are."_

Illya checks in with the children to make sure they will all be able to walk with him. One child timidly raises their hand when he asks if anyone will need help and he realizes this one's been sitting and he can see that their legs are a bit under developed. He vaguely remembers seeing a mangled, tiny thing with wheels he now realizes must have been a small wheelchair. Jaw clenching briefly from a resurgence of anger, he leans over and murmurs that it's okay and that he asked because he wants to help. Ensuring he doesn't hurt them, he picks them up and checks to make sure their legs aren't hanging in a way the child might not notice is painful. He holds that child on the opposite side of the infant, the child holding on tight.

Looking down at the rest, he takes a breath before he asks, "Are we ready?" They all nod and Illya instructs them to hold hands, forming a short chain.

" _I am very impressed, Peril. They're practically eating out of your hand."_

Rolling his eyes, Illya adjusts the weight of the child on his hip and then checks to make sure the infant is secure. "Ready for instruction, Q," he says, "Get us out of here."

 _"Take the doorway opposite where you came in, take immediate left, and then there a bathroom, so stop there because we've got a long drive ahead of us and you've got... 5 children, and two infants?"_ Illya confirms. _"Well, you'll definitely want to stop now, then."_

They do. Later in the garage, Illya jump-starts a large van and piles the children inside. He takes a moment to search the other vehicles, finding numerous blankets, water bottles, and various little snacks. Just in case, he slashes a tire on each. The babies have to wait for food, making Illya's teeth grit in anger, again. In the shoddy kitchen, he’d found a bag of powder that said ‘formula’ on it, but it had been empty. He didn’t know when that had been used and grumbled about it out loud.

Napoleon chimes in quickly: " _I've got an extraction point at the base of the mountain. I'm getting our medics there and they should be waiting for you with a couple bottles of nice, warm formula._ "

"Good. How far?"

" _Closest I can get you, about an hour away. But that storm's coming. You better get a move on. Maybe check the babies before you're on the road._ "

"Already did. They had diaper bag and some of other children helped with babies at home so were changing them when guards didn't. But we don't have car seats so please plan route carefully, Q."

" _You've got it, Peril_."

Once they're finally on the road, the sniffles start. There's no way that Illya can calm all of the while driving down the mountain. Napoleon instructs Illya to give his communicator pen to the children.

Illya hands it back, one child takes it and clicks the end curiously. After a moment, a soft voice begins to talk to them. It's Napoleon's voice, Illya realizes, in a soothing tone he's never heard before.

" _Hello everyone, my name is Q. My friend and I are bringing you home today. I'm very impressed with how brave you all are, you are all doing very well._ " He pauses, then repeats the same in Russian. Then, in Japanese. One child hears that and starts to sniffle. " _In a couple of hours, we are going to pick you and my friend up... In a_ helicopter _. Have any of you ever seen one_?"

A few of the children actually perk slightly, clearly interested. They start talking to Q, to the pen, exactly as though it's a person sitting with them. Napoleon moves fluidly between the three languages spoken by the small group, answering questions about the helicopter and responding to little anecdotes the children mention in response. Eventually one asks, timidly, if their grandmother will be there.

" _She's waiting for you in London. Later, we will give you a phone and she will call you. Okay? She says that... she is making your favorite tres leches cake to celebrate your return_. _And that you get to eat the entire thing, if you want to._ "

The child blinks rapidly before gasping and telling their seat mate that they only get their grandmother's cake at special occasions.

Soon the children are asking about their own families and Napoleon introduces Moneypenny to relay more messages so that he can direct Illya as they reach the city. Napoleon returns to only Illya's ear.

" _So, how are the babies?_ " Napoleon asks him, sounding tired suddenly.

"Still sleeping. Is that normal or-"

" _Don’t worry, Peril._ _I've got a pediatrician here on standby. From what information you gave us earlier, she’s confident that they’ll be fine_."

"Hmm... good. You are surprisingly good with children, Q."

" _You know, I was just thinking the same of you, 004,"_ Napoleon said with a soft laugh. _"I have several younger siblings. You?"_

"First paying job was helping with neighbor children."

" _You were an honest to goodness babysitter, Peril? I can't imagine it._ "

"You don't need to imagine. I am doing it right now."

" _Very true. Ah! Turn into the parking lot of that brick building. This babysitting job is getting closer to an end._ "

The child missing their wheelchair hesitates to let the strange medic pick them up. Illya scoops them up and they cling as he walks them both to the helicopter. Without the infant in his coat, the child wrapped their arms around Illya's neck and sniffles against his coat.

Illya asks Napoleon in Russian so as not to worry the child, if that child would be able to get a replacement wheelchair. After a moment, he hears Napoleon inhale before he could hear the faint click of keys.

" _They will be able to, now_. _An... ‘anonymous benefactor’ may be paying for it_ ," Napoleon says quietly, clearing his throat, giving Illya the impression that some digital currency may have been moved out of the overseas bank account of a billionaire who would not even notice it missing. Napoleon made such hints before. It's also possible that he just planned to buy it himself.

"How generous of them," Illya says with a grin, patting the child's back. He strapped the child into the helicopter, helping others before climbing into his own.

The medics were taking the infants to the closest hospital to be examined before flying out separately, in a separate vehicle accompanied by a pair of MI6 agents. The older children and Illya were taking the helicopter with a separate pilot. Most of the children look excited with a touch of fear, one just looks tired and quickly nods off. The child excited for tres leches was practically glowing with excitement as they twist their head to look at the dashboard and pilot in front.

"It might be loud and scary," Illya tells them, "But you are very safe with us, I promise. You can talk to us with your headset and my friends from the car are patching in if you want to talk to them. Okay?" He repeats in Russian, Napoleon repeats in Japanese. But, whatever _he_ says makes that child, who hadn't smiled much just yet, giggle.

The children all nod and say okay and he takes his seat.

Once they land at the airport, Illya starts when he realizes he has fallen asleep. Over his headset, he can hear Napoleon reading something. A book, he thinks, and he chuckles when he realizes it is _The Hobbit_.

Glancing behind, he notices the children were also asleep.

"You'd be good babysitter," Illya says into his headset, rubbing at one eye. "You made 5 children and one 00 fall asleep."

" _I'm sure the experience of the last few days had something to do with it too, 004." Napoleon says dryly. "And I just assumed you never slept, so that's an eye opener_."

Illya clicks his tongue. "Who has time for real sleep?"

" _Touche._ "

Illya hands over the three children to a waiting MI6 agent who is going to bring them to their parents. All three worriedly look up at Illya, clinging to his trouser legs. Clearly anxious about being separated from him, so he kneels to be more at eye level with all of them.

"I am very proud of you three," Illya says, "This was very difficult and you were all very brave. You were very good at listening, at helping. This person is going to take you to your families and you will go home. I promise."

They slowly accept this and ask Illya where he's going, why he can't come with them and he nods at the other two, a short distance away. "I am helping your friends get to their families, and then I need to go home, too."

The Russian child asks if that means Moscow, because that's where they both are from, and Illya pauses. "No," Illya said with a soft sigh and smile. "I live in London now, so I can help people, like I helped you."

The children, surprising Illya, insist on a hug and the rest all follow. He had only known them a handful of hours but they'd already declared him as someone they not only trusted but cried about, on separating. Illya honestly hoped that they forgot about him, and the incident, quickly.

They wave good-bye to Illya and the other two children as they walk toward the open hangar. Illya slowly boards the plane with the other two children, stopping for a moment when he sees one of the three scream and break into a run. They fly into the arms of an adult, who crumbles to the ground holding them. The agent carrying one child hurried to deliver them into the arms of another adult who takes and holds them tightly. The third walks slowly, with trembling arms outstretched, he can almost hear them crying from where he stood. Illya smiles as they are also scooped up by a pair who all embrace on the tarmac.

Sometimes, he thinks, they do very good work.

" _That was sweet_ ," comes Napoleon's voice. " _Did you see that?_ "

Illya was already used to Napoleon hopping from camera to camera. "Yes, it was good thing," he turns away slowly and steps inside the small plane. He settles into his seat. The two children had already been given snacks, munching and chatting in three different languages between them. Illya leans back in his chair, tilting his cap over his eyes. "Now, keep reading, Q- children must know what happens to the hobbit and his wizard."

10.

The town was mostly crumbling, the parts that weren't were mostly abandoned. The ones that weren't abandoned mostly contained members of the human trafficking group that Illya was determinedly picking off despite access to minimal equipment or decent food, for that matter. 

Illya sees one of the two that had been following them grab at Napoleon and he's there in a flash, throwing a rough punch that destabilized the would-be attacker. They drop, and with two more rounds from his firearm, both of the closest threats are removed. He and Napoleon are fairly equally matched in speed as they tear through the mazelike crumbled buildings, but he can hear Napoleon curse and see him glance downward because he's _not wearing a prosthetic made for fucking running, Peril!_

The leg makes it, though, to the abandoned building that Illya had been hiding out in for a couple of weeks with no contact to MI6. He had been sure he was written off as MIA already, looking the part with rough stubble and rougher clothing.

Napoleon had appeared in town looking for him on his own, zeroing in on him utilizing a handful of locally networked security cameras in the abandoned marketplace. Before he'd appeared at Illya's elbow, almost taking a punch from Illya in fact, Illya hadn't even known he was there. He was whisper-quiet on his feet, as always. Illya wouldn't know for a while that Napoleon didn't have a lick of permission to be there. And he wouldn't know _why_ even longer. 

For now, he hadn’t stopped to ask.

"I should probably just get myself evac," Napoleon groaned, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of what was once a pristine, silver-gray sweater.

"And how will you do this?"

"I didn't realize it until you said who was in charge here. They want _me_."

"There's no way for you to get out of here, your car is ruined and there aren't many in town either. What did you even _do_ to get on radar of such a criminal?"

Napoleon let out a long breath, leaning against the wall and sliding down to sit on the floor. "Remember those 'jokes' I've made about ruining people with two keystrokes? Well, he deserved it. And probably didn't appreciate it. No idea how he traced it to me, but... it could also be because we used to date."

That floored Illya, somehow. "... _Date?_ "

"Yes, Peril, when two people like each other--and sometimes, one of them is a young, misguided fool wearing rose-colored glasses-"

Illya feels a burgeoning anger heat up under his skin. "What did _he_ do?"

Napoleon sighs. "He tried to... 'give' me to a friend of his. I thought it was a relationship, and that he was just a regular thief like me. He just thought of me as another one of his possessions. I stole everything that had value in his place, burnt the house down, and left.” He shrugs, as though the arson and theft were nothing. “That's actually when the task force finally caught me. Ironically, I was a little rusty at working 'solo'. Then, once I had the skills, I tracked him down again and found out he was involved in shadier things- things that I couldn't get access to at the time, not with the CIA’s resources. But I did drain all of his US bank accounts, funneling the money into several organizations combating human trafficking. So that probably held his operation off for a while, but he dropped off the radar after. Come to think of it, I did use his name for the donations as a last 'fuck you'. He may have traced it to me that way. I.. might have been hacking while drunk." Napoleon bares his teeth in an grimace. 

Illya drew in a sharp breath, torn between his anger and the urge to chuckle. His anger won out because he didn't think the punishment quite fit the crime, particularly since now they both knew the man in question had only worsened over the years.

"You will stay here," Illya said, crossing the room to his worn suitcase. He reloads his gun, stuffing additional ammunition in his pockets. "It should be safe, but lock door behind me. I'll get word to Moneypenny, just in case I don't-"

Napoleon appears at Illya's elbow with a hard look on his face. "You are _not_ leaving me here to just wait and see if you come back alive. Go steal me a laptop and a cell phone so I can help you remotely. If you don't, I'm going out looking for you and you won't be here to stop me."

Illya's jaw clenched. "I will tie you to the radiator if I have to, Q."

Napoleon tilts his head. "You think that's stopped me before?”

Growling in frustration, Illya grabs for his coat. " _Fine_ , but you do not leave this building unless there is threat. Understand?"

"Understood, Peril. Now, go get me that laptop."

Napoleon uses the heavy, Windows 2000 laptop that Illya brings him like it's one of the sleek, cutting edge computers from his own office. It had been the closest computer Illya could find in the derelict portion of the ghost town they were in. Napoleon explains it away as essentially being a bridge between him and his actual computer at MI6. When they get a hold of her, Moneypenny takes exactly five seconds to growl at them herself before they're back at work.

Within the hour, Illya senses something wrong. He’s inside the building and has the papers that they need, but the man he's looking for is nowhere to be seen. He searches the office, throwing things as he does, trying to figure out where he'd gone. Illya knew he was a slippery one, having evaded MI6 and another 00 once before.

" _Peril_ ," comes Napoleon's whisper in his ear.

Illya freezes. "Why are you whispering? What's wrong." 

" _I found him._ _He must’ve traced me after I broke into his system, I- No time._ Please _tell me you left one of my guns here_."

Illya can't breathe. He hadn't, he only had one left and he hadn’t thought to search the men who’d tried to snatch Napoleon earlier. "No, I-"

There's a crash, a _bang,_ then a crackle before Illya's earpiece went dead and Illya was flying out the door and climbing back on the motorcycle he'd stolen earlier. Heart hammering, he broke speed limits that didn't matter in this ghost town, anyway. When he was close enough to the building he could hear nothing, not a fight, and that terrified him.

The dark car outside has one occupant waiting. Illya dispatches them with one shot and shoves his knife into a tire. He still didn't hear a single noise in the otherwise empty apartment building as he climbs the stairs, gun drawn. It unnerves him even more. As he gets closer, he can hear deep breathing in the apartment, sound like only one person's.

Shoving the door open, Illya takes in the front room quickly. Two bodies on the floor just inside, neither wearing a familiar silver-gray sweater. The laptop, a bullet hole through it, was on the floor on its side. Through the cracked door to the bedroom, Illya can see a single trousered leg on the floor, red-splotched silver-gray sweater slumped back against the foot of the bed.

Illya's heart nearly stops.

He manages to put one foot in front of the other. Crossing the room, he forces himself to throw the door open.

Napoleon doesn't startle, breathing hard and looking at Illya without his usual grin. His prosthetic was gone, residual limb bare under his trouser leg and foot of his prosthetic on one side of the room. But their target was slumped across the floor with a very unusual blade protruding from his neck... A very familiar one.

"...Your leg was not made for running, but _was_ made to be _knife?_ "

Napoleon grins and tips his head back against the bed, laughing quietly. Illya sees he's clutching his shoulder. "Oh God, Peril, I am so glad to see you." Napoleon looks Illya over. "Are you-"

"Fine," Illya said quickly, crossing the room and kneeling to pry at his hand. "What's wrong?"

"Bullet graze. Got the laptop, not me. Hurts a lot more than I remember," he said, lifting his hand. The tear in his sweater is clean enough that Illya can see that he’ll be fine. Looking him over, Illya looks back up at Napoleon's face to find he's still smiling. "Good thing you didn't tie me to the radiator, huh?"

Illya stares at him, then huffs. "Wasn't _actually_ going to.” He breathes out, trying not to look at the red stains on Napoleon’s sweater- it made it difficult to breathe, seeing him covered in blood. “Your sweater is ruined.”

“Oh, yeah. I loved this one, too. _Louis Vuitton..._ ” Napoleon says sadly, picking at a stray reddened piece of thread.

Feeling himself about to smile, Illya smothers it and says, “Come on. We should get out of here, get to airport."

Napoleon nods, holding up the cell phone Illya had forgotten about. It's cracked, blinking. "Moneypenny has transport coming for us. Just need a car. Did I hear you shoot out their tire or can we take theirs?"

"That was driver," Illya says, feeling oddly guilty when he adds, "But I did slash one tire." He leans over, his hand under Napoleon's good shoulder and pulling him up so they could walk together.

"Well," Napoleon says, "I really hope that your 00 training includes how to change a tire."

7.

Illya hesitates, then presses a finger to the intercom button. It makes a tiny buzzing sound outside of the glass room and, judging by the reaction of the hazmat-suited figures inside, it’s a fair bit louder on the inside. One of them immediately walks over to slap the respond button to make it stop.

“ _Little busy here,_ ” the person says gruffly. It’s not Napoleon.

Illya scans the rest of the group, finding Napoleon in it merely by his build. He glances over his shoulder at the Q Branch technician clutching Illya’s newest equipment case, nodding slightly. They breathe a sigh of relief, his threat from earlier had been a little extreme, but he knew it had been necessary to find out where Napoleon was.

For the last three missions, weeks of time, he hadn’t seen Napoleon’s face once. When he went to pick up his mission equipment, he found a small duffle uniformly prepacked. The same followed prior to his next two missions, increasingly anxious-looking Q Branch technicians had explained any new tech as his glower increased in frustration.

A mission in Cambodia had gone almost as badly as it could have. Innocent lives lost by no fault of Illya’s but leaving him feeling that way. Illya was also injured, the target had mocked him in a way that had triggered his rage and ended the target’s life. The injuries could have killed Illya, if not for good timing on the part of his Quartermaster. While he had technically been successful, it had resulted in an awful argument between himself and Napoleon in Q Branch, a room full of technicians, wherein Illya had said things out of anger that he now regretted deeply.

The look of hurt on Napoleon’s face haunted Illya since.

“Q,” Illya begins, but his mouth closes because the title makes this feel so impersonal. But he couldn't call him by name. It didn't feel... earned. “Listen to me, please.”

Napoleon was leaning over something with heavily gloved hands, pouring one tiny vial into a larger beaker. He didn’t look up or even acknowledge hearing Illya. All the technicians around him were looking amongst each other uneasily, the tension palpable.

“I am leaving soon but I never... really know if I’m going to have time after next mission, so I’m telling you now-” He swallowed. “I am sorry. I spoke in anger, which... I know is not acceptable as excuse. Just explanation. I try not to let rage get best of me, but it’s... not always possible. I want it to be, so I am... trying. I don’t want to lose-” _You_ , Illya thinks. His mouth dries, but he continues. “-my temper again. I will not, with you ever again. I swear to you... That is what I wanted to say.”

Letting go of the button, he sees Napoleon is finishing the small vial and turning away, walking toward the back of the room. Illya watches him for just a second before he turns to the technician next to him to take the bag. “Thank you,” he says quietly, moving to walk around them.

“ _And what about my minions, here?”_ Napoleon’s voice calls out, through the intercom.

Turning back quickly, Illya sees that Napoleon is leaning against the wall and pressing the intercom button casually. Through the opaque visor, Illya thinks he can make a smile. He can’t help a slight smile back, hearing Napoleon speak to him for the first time in weeks. Stepping forward to stand in front of the button again, he presses it. “I apologize to them, too. I should not disrespect you in front of them, or at all. None of them deserve angry words from me,” he said, glancing over his shoulder and speaking directly to the one who he had made lead him there. “And I’m sorry if I scared you, it was tactic. Wouldn’t actually hurt you.”

Napoleon’s still grinning when he turns back, possibly more. It was hard to tell through the visor. “ _Well, I suppose I can forgive you if you bring something 'special' back from this mission for me._ ”

Illya couldn’t help a bit of suspicion. His next mission started in an art gallery.

“What is this?” Illya asked.

“ _All of my equipment, intact. See you soon, Peril._ ”

5.

Perhaps since Napoleon had been a field agent, he understood that having a cool-headed voice guiding him was ideal, especially on high-stakes missions. Maybe that was part of why M had pilfered such an asset from the CIA. It was rare for a field agent with Napoleon's skills to move into tech, much less become quite so accomplished.

Knowing that, Illya found that when his cool finally broke... it was all the more jarring, though he couldn’t realize that till much later.

" _Illya? Illya! Stand up, answer the damn phone already. Come on. Illya! Illya, wake up!_ " He was screaming in Illya's ear, the painful pitch almost as bad as the ringing in the other. Blinking and feeling the sting of dust in his eyes, Illya turned his head and coughed out a mouthful of dust as well.

Napoleon’s voice dropped from a scream to loud urgency. " _Illya? Is that--hey, talk to me. Say fucking_ something _! Illya!_ "

Illya made a noise, hoping it sounded like confirmation as he tried to scan his surroundings for any immediate threat. Dust and debris clouded most of the air, there was crumbled stone around him, no persons, and that was all he could take in. When he tried to push himself up, he groaned and his hand flew to his side.

" _Oh my God._ " Napoleon said, finally at a normal volume. " _Il- 004, report... Please._ "

Coughing and spitting out dust, Illya tried to right himself. "Alive," he says gruffly, finding both legs stable as he balanced against the thick stone bench he'd found himself lying behind. There was a good chance he was alive _because_ of that bench, he thinks, seeing holes etched into it from the explosion.

He can hear Napoleon let out a loud, shaky breath, a few words muffled like he was speaking through something before he comes back and tries to explain, " _He blew up the building you were about t-to-Fuck! Moneypenny!_ "

Gaby's voice fills the air suddenly, telling him what information they had and what his best next move was. Illya didn't mention the pain in his side, wondering vaguely where Q had gone but unable to focus on that at the moment. His eyes itched terribly but he moved along. The building had been within the compound of their target, he hadn't thought the man would be willing to sacrifice his own men but he probably should have. Both of his firearms operate normally, removing obstacles along the way.

Shortly after Moneypenny finishes guiding Illya to the right building, Napoleon's voice comes back in. His voice is harder than normal. " _I've got very few cameras in this one, 004. Be careful, we've got a taste for how ruthless this fuck can be._ "

Illya makes an amused noise, almost surprising himself, before he enters the building.

When he comes back out, he's out of bullets and breath but the job is finished.

Illya makes it back to MI6 HQ with one arm in a sling- he had a fracture, hadn't even noticed until he'd gotten to his hotel- and his ribs throb under the mask of painkillers. As he always does, he stops at Q Branch to drop off his tech and as he walks past the glass wall to the door, slows his steps and stares.

Set up beside Napoleon's desk is an oversized cage, one that might customarily house a large parrot. It's set up with internal, soft pads instead of wire shelves, and ramps between each level. From the door, a small, white thing is barely visible. When Illya opens the door, he sees a small head lift, a cat's gleaming blue eyes stare right back at him.

Illya crosses the room slowly, confused but interested. When Illya holds a finger against the side of the cage, the white cat appraises him momentarily before lifting up and stretching out each limb delicately. It's only after they are standing that he realizes that there's a second cat too, larger and longer--in fact, he had almost mistaken it for a cat bed that the smaller cat had been sleeping on. It's a sleepy-looking orange one that eyes Illya for a moment before stretching out and resuming their nap. The white cat gets his attention back by rubbing their face against the bars at his finger and making an odd, soft nose that barely sounds like a meow.

"Oh, she likes you."

Illya starts badly, glaring at the man suddenly at his side. Napoleon was standing there, looking surprised at Illya's surprise. He often snuck up on Illya unintentionally, though this time was especially jarring with Illya’s ears ringing a bit from the explosion. Naturally, Napoleon was clad in another outfit of his usual decadence. Illya wore handsome, tailored suits just as other 00s did, but even the most handsome suit seemed trite when compared to the carefully curated _daily_ designer wardrobe of Napoleon Solo. Illya didn't know how he managed to look so put together every day despite the rumors that he rarely ever left the office. He’d not once seen Napoleon in casual clothing once, nor had he seen him at MI6 with a single hair out of place... His carefully polished appearance always made Illya's hands twitch.

Napoleon smiled. "004. How was... the flight? "

Illya looks at the cats again. "It was fine. Please tell me Q Branch does not experiment on animals."

"Oh, good God no," Napoleon said, clearly scandalized. "Knowing what I make, I'd sooner quit and go underground to systematically ruin the lives of whoever asked me to do such a thing. Talk about a supervillain origin story."

Illya pauses, then nods. "Good. I like cats. So, who are these?"

For a second, Napoleon stares at him. Then he grins. "Sapphire," Napoleon said, leaning in and pushing his fingers through the cage wall to scrub at the white cat's- Sapphire's- head. She makes the odd noise again, but it's followed by what sounds like the early signs of popping corn. "I stole her from someone who didn’t deserve her. The big orange boy back there is Samson, he's a rescue from when I lived in Queens. He's only got two legs and he's still a little feral, so it's probably good that you didn't try to pet him. Only occasionally lets me pet him, myself. He really only likes Sapphire."

Illya eyes the rescue a moment, a little touched. He chooses not to ask about the theft of cat. "Why are they here, at MI6?"

"I'm sorry, do my cats offend you in some way?" Napoleon asked, grinning. "My building is being fumigated, someone three floors below me had some kind of nasty infestation that thankfully didn't reach me. So we're staying in the office until the fumes dissipate."

"Ah, so you do occasionally sleep."

Napoleon shrugged.

"Well, keep away from M. He might have allergic reaction. Found out right after mission involving multiple big cats, I left suit jacket in plane, he used it right after. Face was..." He gestures to his eyes. "Crying, and sneezing."

Napoleon winces, drawing air between his teeth. "Oh no. Well, I'll let Moneypenny know to keep him away, or get him allergy medicine, maybe." he said, gesturing toward the tray waiting for Illya's 'returns'. "So I do have to scold you a little, you realize. You didn't tell me on the air about your uh," he glanced at the sling on Illya's arm. "Injury? Injur _ies_?"

Illya shrugged on his good side. "Didn't notice. Adrenaline, probably," he said, lying. He used his good hand to remove one gun, unable to unload it so Napoleon stepped in and did so as he removed the other.

"You know, you're an incredibly good liar," Napoleon says, conversationally. "But it won't work on me. I could have gotten you to the hospital a helluva lot sooner if you'd-"

"I am okay, Q," Illya interrupts, unable to say for certain why he says it, but he does. "It's over."The memory of Napoleon's voice, broken briefly after Illya had woken on the street, flickers anew in Illya's memory.

Napoleon finishes unloading the second gun's magazine and sets the pieces down, turning to Illya with his arms crossed over his chest. "Until the next time," he corrects gently. "So please- tell me, when we are at that next time?"

Illya stares right back, unblinking for a moment before he nods.

Napoleon smiles. "Good. Now, get out of here. Now that you've returned my equipment you're officially off-duty until you're all healed up. I know you 00s love your vacations."

2.

"How many murderous ex-boyfriend do you _have_?"

Napoleon grumbles in Illya's ear. " _I resent that. I can't help it if I'm a goddamn genius who attracts the same, okay? And to be fair, this one worked for MI6. The whole thing about double agents is you usually don't notice until they double cross. Though I suppose it's a little flattering that he had to steal my software to make this work..._ "

"Q," Illya warns, sweat dripping from his nose.

_"Yes, Peril. One second... I- hey!"_

_"Oh, hello, Mr. Kuryakin!"_

Ilya flinches. They agent had gotten to Napoleon. Swearing softly, he begins yanking on the handle of the smallish floor safe that he'd that been trying to break into.

_"You're getting your disgusting, greasy fingerprints all over my equipment."_

_"You don't like my hands any more, Leon? Oh, sorry. I suppose I should stick to calling you Q, now?"_

_"I'd prefer you didn't call me anything, actually."_

_"Awww, but you let me call you lover, once. Get away from the computer, Napoleon."_

Illya grits his teeth, fury filling his entire body as he pulls hard. The metal cracks and he braces his foot to pull it harder. Thankfully, the rusty thing gives up and it cracks open like an egg.

There's stunned silence on the radio as he grabs the disc out and heads for the door. Napoleon was at the hotel and Illya would be there in minutes.

Napoleon actually sounds annoyed. _"You bought a cheap, secondhand safe, didn't you? God I didn't even notice... it's probably a counterfeit."_ The would-be criminal mastermind sputters, but Napoleon just sighs. _"It doesn't matter. You get what you pay for, I suppose. Moneypenny?"_

_“What-”_

A single, sharp sound is all Illya hears before Napoleon sighs again. _"Remember what I said about how I attract geniuses? I'm starting to think it may be the opposite."_

Moneypenny snorts in the background and Illya, for some reason, feels insulted.

1.

Illya might have been in a better mood if not for the headache he'd had since he'd taken a blow to the head at the very end of his last mission- it had ended outside of London, at least, so he’d had a decent sleep the night before. His attire had made it through impeccably for once, not a speck of debris or blood on him. He brushed a hand over the spot on the back of his head as he walked, thankful that it hadn't broken the skin. If Illya were seen walking around with a visible injury-- God forbid, by _Moneypenny--_ he'd have been steered directly toward medical and, with his luck, be there until nightfall, regardless of the severity of his injuries.

Instead, Illya headed toward Q Branch, opening the door and stepping inside of the bright, open floor filled with surfaces covered in tools and supplies with a gleaming black desk in the center. It was more quiet than usual, Napoleon’s technicians likely scattered to their various offices and labs to create more devastating tools for their arsenal.

But, the office was not _entirely_ empty.

“Well, well! Welcome home, Peril. _Please_ tell me my lockpicking set made it back with you?”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Illya kept walking and began emptying his pockets and holsters into the usual tray awaiting him.

Illya removed and discharged each gun he had been issued three weeks prior, two from his shoulder holsters and one from his ankle. After those were three knives and a small, tied roll of leather placed down neatly next to them. Nothing particularly interesting, this time. He spoke in a monotone as he plucked out his tiny earpiece and left it, as well. “Firearms performed as expected. Lockpicking set is functional but was much faster to just kick door in. Two pieces were not recoverable. Automatic lock pick would be better.”

There was a moment, and then Illya heard a stifled laugh. Clenching his jaw, he adjusted his suit jacket without the bulk of the guns under his arms and then glared over to the source of that sound.

Napoleon was leaning against his desk with a tablet in hand. He was holding a hand over his mouth, a smile behind it. The year before, Illya had been immediately torn between annoyance and attraction before carefully steering himself into annoyance for _both_ of their sakes. It certainly wasn’t impossible to maintain that.

Illya recognized today’s runway as primarily _Hermes_ , though Napoleon’s eyes were framed by one of the usual metal _Hugo Boss_ eyeglasses that matched the frame of his prosthetic. Illya had often wondered if he had the frame made by _Hugo Boss_ as well. Napoleon’s dark hair was carefully combed, the front of his trousers were pressed into a crisp line, prosthetic and shoes shined until they gleamed.

“Always so stubborn, Peril. How much longer before you just let me teach you how to pick locks?” Napoleon's legs slipped down, he put the tablet back onto his desk before standing up and leaning over it. “it would be so much more cost effective. If you lose them, you can pickpocket a new set in any city in the world.”

"I do not need to pick locks _that_ often, quartermaster," Illya said, closing his eyes briefly. "It is unnecessary."

"No? I can think of some missions it would have been a huge help. That _very_ important door in Cambodia comes to mind."

Illya rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. " _That_ mission was _time sensitive_."

Napoleon nods slowly. "And... you would have _had_ more time _if_ you hadn't had to work your way through the extra dozen guards you alerted when you shot through the door handle, yes?"

It was an old argument. It hadn't actually happened that long ago but it had certainly grown old to argue about. The therapy MI6 had originally pushed on Illya with the threat of retirement was, unexpectedly, helping with his anger. He was more aware than ever of what stirred his temper and more often than not, succeeded in stopping an explosion. Most of his extreme outbursts had been downgraded to the occasional violent _words_ , instead of physical violence. That being said, he was not perfect--he still had bad days. Sometimes, he could not help getting angry.

At present, Illya knew he could have a relapse if they continued talking about Cambodia- not because of the mission or even at Napoleon, but at residual anger toward himself. He was _still_ angry at himself for losing control and taking it out on Napoleon, of all people.

"We are not arguing about this again." Illya said carefully, but he could not hold back completely, a thread of his temper managing through. “... And I do not need training from _thief_.”

Napoleon pointed at Illya, smile not budging. “ _Former_ thief. _Current_ co-worker, liaison to _all_ the tech you bring into the field. And...” Napoleon wilted, just a little. Just enough to make Illya ache with sudden guilt. “I’d thought, a _friend_ , Peril.”

Illya could very well explain nothing, just turn around and leave. Sure, tech from Q branch had certainly saved his life before, something he would never argue. But Napoleon was right, they had become close- albeit, the other man was still able to frustrate him to no end- but close nonetheless.

Truthfully, Illya knew exactly why Napoleon frustrated him and was doing his damndest to avoid letting his own feelings spoil their working relationship. Illya closed his eyes and lifted a hand to his nose, pinching the bridge and let out a deep breath. “I... may have slight concussion,” he confesses, shoulders rising in an unconscious shrug and finally giving a thin smile. “Have not gone to medical yet. I apologize, headache is... bad.”

It must have been the headache, because Illya opened his eyes and Napoleon was standing right in front of him. The other man was looking up at Illya's face closely, carefully lifting his hand to press fingertips on Illya's jaw, moving his head so he could peer into both eyes.

It took a great deal of willpower for Illya not startle at the touch, move away. Illya knew Napoleon would stop and move away if Illya told him to.

Illya did not. He _couldn't_.

It was under Napoleon's careful observation that Illya was hesitant to even breathe. He watched Napoleon's blue eyes carefully searching his own for anything wrong, checking his pupils. Illya idly notices he can see the brown spot on Napoleon’s left eye very well from here. Illya can see a tiny red mark on his jaw where he must have nicked his skin while shaving, the faint scent of his aftershave. Somehow, inhaling the scent soothes the ache in Illya's skull.

“I thought we agreed... that you’re not supposed to get hurt,” Napoleon says eventually, frowning his mouth to one side for a moment as he moves his hands back to run through his hair for the bump, “Well, you’re clearly not slurring. Nausea?”

Illya's eyes are drawn further down briefly to Napoleon's mouth as it tilts. There is a twitch in his eyes when Napoleon’s fingertips graze where he’d taken the blow.

If anyone came in then, Illya would have no excuse.

Not anymore.

“No," Illya said quietly, "Just the headache.” The fingers slowly retreat, and Illya releases the tension in his shoulders.

Napoleon crosses his arms. “You need to be more careful, 004.” he says, turning to the lockpick set that Illya had placed on the table. “And you owe me for these two lockpicks. It won’t be cheap, _these_ were special.”

Illya moved closer to the table with a furrowed brow, looking at the set. “They are unique in some way? I thought they were ordinary set- stainless steel.”

Nodding, Napoleon took one out and twirled it between his hands. “While they _are_ stainless steel, they are anything but ordinary,” he said, smiling at them before sliding the lockpick back into place. “They were mine. Old tools of the trade.”

Frowning, Illya’s eyes shot up to Napoleon’s face as he was folding the case back up. “I did not know,” Illya said, feeling guilty. “Assumed they were scratched because of use from other agents, I did not think-“

“It’s _fine_ , Peril. I lent them to you knowing that I could lose all of them, even. I haven’t actually used them in years. But I found them recently and thought they might come in handy on your last mission. I would only have been more pleased if they'd actually helped. _C'est la vie_.”

Illya looked at Napoleon again, feeling a warm prickle in his chest. “I did use them successfully. Just not while in communication. Three doors in hotel, two en route to target to help cut through blocks of houses without enemy spotting me. I am... slow at traditional lockpicking, but could improve... with help.” His heart pounds.

Napoleon’s smile grew and grew while Illya felt warmer and warmer. Napoleon finally clapped a hand against Illya’s shoulder and said, “Excellent! I am definitely making you your very own set, Peril. We will work on that time, too. You’ll be better than I am by the time I’m through with you.” He tilted his head toward the door. “Now, let’s get you to medical. I don’t care what you say, I’m not letting you leave without their okay.”

Illya, not a fan of medical any day of the week, cannot find it in himself to argue.

Medical does not take long. They are quick to say it is not a concussion, the headache likely from dehydration and hunger, already easing away from his journey back. He is told that he will have at least a few days off-duty to rest, an in-house blood test confirming that his blood sugar is a little low from lack of regular meals while on mission. That is often the norm for 00s, so they force a cookie onto him before he’s allowed to leave. He also has instructions to eat some kind of high calorie full meal and get a good night’s rest, as per usual.

While Illya is finishing up, he notices that Napoleon is off to the side of the medical bay talking to who Illya now recognizes as the prosthetist of the medical wing. Some nurses and other doctors were standing with them. Napoleon was saying something that involved gesturing high with his hands and a wide smile on his face. Illya thinks to himself, that he missed that smile. 

Free to go home, Illya lingers at the exit just a moment before Napoleon appears at his elbow. He looks a little confused when Illya avoids eye contact for a moment but they soon start conversing naturally. They both walk in the direction of the street level entryway to MI6, Napoleon asking Illya questions about the doors he’d mentioned unlocking during his previous mission. Illya is considering telling Napoleon again that he is sorry about breaking the lockpicks, when Napoleon stops and slides his hands into his pockets as he asks, “Heading home?”

Illya looks over at him. “Yes. Was going to stop for takeaway, something quick.”

“Oh, perfect! Let’s go.”

Illya, surprised, can only follow.

0.

At Illya’s apartment, Napoleon eats his takeaway while lounging with his feet up. They’ve got a football game on that neither of them particularly care about, but neither bothering to take the time to find something better.

Seeing Napoleon relaxed like this, in Illya’s space, is distracting Illya who can barely remember to bring food to his mouth. It’s maybe the juxtaposition of his luxurious clothing and the cheap takeaway container of food that he was wholeheartedly enjoying. There were _crumbs_ on his extremely expensive sweater.

Having Napoleon in his apartment was another- in that respect, Illya’s apartment with dark colors and minimalist, metal furniture was a backdrop that he couldn’t help but think Napoleon suited very well.

Illya sets his spoon down into his own empty takeaway container, appetite appeased. “You do not have to keep eye on me. I am cleared, medically.”

Napoleon looks over, eyebrows up. “I’m not here to keep an eye on you,” he said matter-of-factly, glancing at the game before looking more fully at Illya. He gestured with his spoon at his food, mostly finished. “We’re having lunch together.”

It shouldn't be an odd thing to say, as though this happened often. But it is, since it's the first time this particular sort of lunch has happened, normally Illya would not bring anyone there- he was a private man. Illya had hesitated only briefly in bringing Napoleon to his apartment. He'd been surprised realizing that he actually _wanted_ Napoleon in his space.

Napoleon keeps talking, looking back at the television. “I _suppose_ if you suddenly fainted or something, I would intervene... or call someone else to intervene, so I am _technically_ keeping an eye on you, but...” Napoleon says, shrugging before wiping his mouth with a napkin. He drops his feet, sitting up to put his container on the table. “I haven’t seen you in over three weeks and missed you. I was also, conveniently, _very_ hungry. Q branch is so far away from street level, I usually just eat a protein bar and get back to work rather than lose the extra time. This was excellent, though. I can’t believe they’re only takeaway-”

Illya’s hand closes on Napoleon’s shoulder, not bothering to try to interrupt verbally because he knows the other man well enough to know he’s not easily stopped mid sentence. Sure enough, the physical contact silences Napoleon, though for some reason, he doesn’t look at Illya.

“You missed _me_?” Illya asked, emphasizing himself as though the idea of Napoleon missing Illya, of all people, was ridiculous. “Why?”

Napoleon’s body goes rigid and Illya suddenly _knows_.

What Napoleon had said was likely meant to be flippant but in that moment the tension that had been in the undercurrent of their entire professional relationship had suddenly crackled. Something that made Illya’s instincts clamor awake, like a cage being rattled.

The silence that stretches after Illya’s question is uncharacteristic of Napoleon, whose silver tongue had gotten Q branch each and every budget increase they’d requested ever since he’d taken the role. Perhaps there was a timing that Napoleon had missed to make a joke, but he’d stumbled and lost his voice instead.

So instead of waiting, Illya decided to take a chance and asked, “Did you want to see me? Not because you were worried for your lockpicks?” His hand slides down Napoleon’s shoulder and over the bulky curve of his bicep and Illya sees him shiver. “Or...”

Illya had absolutely wonderful instincts. They had saved his life, saved other lives, saved the _world_ on numerous occasions. Right now his instincts told him to push a little more, to take a little risk.

“Are you going soft on me... Napoleon?” Illya asks, the other man’s title of ‘Q’ had been on his tongue but he could not hold back the name, here in the privacy of his own apartment.

Napoleon had a flush rising up his neck up to his ears, one that Illya found distracting enough to almost miss Napoleon whisper, “Damn it, Peril _._ ”

 _Peril._ Napoleon had begun calling Illya by nickname early in his tenure as Q. Napoleon had insisted despite Illya’s admittedly half-hearted attempts to steer the other man back toward the work-appropriate territory of his 00 title.

It was much easier before Illya had really known him.

Before, when Napoleon was just his Quartermaster.

Before this.

Napoleon’s skin flushed even deeper under the intensity of Illya’s gaze, as though he could feel it though he still hadn’t moved an inch. The way Illya saw the corner of Napoleon’s eye glimmer, Illya suddenly knows he’s being studied through Napoleon’s peripheries. Illya's lip twitches.

Once again, Illya’s instincts weigh in. He leans forward, using his hand on Napoleon’s arm to request he turn. Napoleon hesitates but does allow himself to be moved, avoiding Illya’s eyes. It may be the longest Illya's ever seen Napoleon lost for words. Illya touches Napoleon’s cheek, feeling a shiver from his cold hand. The touch finally got Napoleon to look up at him, not flinching away from the chill of his hand. Something in Napoleon's eyes is _hopeful_ in a way that easily brings a soft smile to Illya’s mouth. Napoleon’s gaze flickers briefly down to it.

Illya’s fingers slipped back under Napoleon’s ear into surprisingly silky, curly hair as his thumb briefly traced over the rise of Napoleon’s cheekbone. Napoleon shivered again, dark eyelashes fluttering briefly. Illya’s other hand rose to the other side, thumb resting under Napoleon's ear as Illya studied him carefully.

The football game went wild suddenly, but neither of them seemed to notice.

“May I kiss you?” Illya finally asks, watching Napoleon’s eyes dilate and resisting the urge to smile again.

The crowd in the background is still screaming, the announcer breathless.

Napoleon doesn’t say yes or no, but he grabs the lapels of Illya’s jacket, surging up to steal the kiss himself. Caught off guard, Illya rights himself and tries again not to smile as he presses back into the kiss. When they come up for a bit of air Illya leans forward and Napoleon’s upper lip is between his when they kiss again, Napoleon letting out a soft gasp.

With one hand clenched lightly in Illya’s jacket, Napoleon’s tongue touches tentatively to the seam of Illya’s lips. Making what he had intended as an approving noise, Illya realizes it sounds more like a hungry growl as Napoleon lets out a surprised little laugh before he is _devoured_.

But Napoleon pulls away their kissing far too soon. Illya leans forward to follow and continue but to his surprise, Napoleon was _giggling_.

Illya begrudgingly allows this, takes a moment to lean over and turn the TV off so that the only sound in the apartment is Napoleon's soft laughter as he tips forward onto Illya's shoulder, hands twisting in his shirt--still holding Illya close.

“Stop. Laughing,” Illya finally says with a sigh, fondness a boon in a moment like this. Impatient, Illya presses his lips to the corners of Napoleon’s smiling mouth and the dimple on his chin, smiling when each kiss made Napoleon’s smile lines etch a little deeper for just a second. Napoleon eventually calms, so Illya straightens up to wait expectantly.

Napoleon lets out his breath, eyes bright as he looks at Illya with something soft and new in them. He doesn’t move away, actually leaning in and resting his hands on Illya’s chest. “I'm sorry. It just occurred to me that I’ve been your handler while you’ve had to... _charm_ someone. You’re usually so awful at this part but now it’s _me_ and you’ve got me all...” he trailed off, gaze dropping back down to Illya’s mouth.

"’ _Awful_ ’?" Illya repeats with raised brows, feigning insult. He was well aware that he was much more comfortable with reality than anything he'd perform on mission. Choosing to roll with it, he eyes Napoleon up and down briefly. “So, this awful man’s got you all what, Solo?”

Napoleon hesitates this time, suddenly shyer than the man who had yanked Illya into a passionate kiss just moments ago. Napoleon looks away and worries his lower lip between his teeth before looking back at Illya with what Illya can only describe as begging eyes. “Peril... I'm fucking _crazy_ about you and now you’ve got me all hot and bothered... It’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”

Illya’s reaction time is the slowest it’s ever been. “...Of course,” he says roughly, unable to tear his eyes away from the faint, faint imprint of teeth on Napoleon's lower lip. Then, Napoleon’s tongue darts out to wet his mouth and when Illya looks up, Napoleon is smirking.

“You know, this sofa is a little narrow, Peril... I, uh--” Napoleon hums, as though considering how to phrase what he wants to say. He may be doing so unconsciously, but his hand drops onto the top of his prosthetic. “The more space... the more _flexible_ I am... show me your bedroom? If that sounds good to you.”

Illya decides very quickly that it does. He manages a nod, standing up to pull the other man toward his bedroom. He might be manhandling a little, but Napoleon’s laughing and holding onto him just as tightly. Illya also can’t help but press Napoleon against a couple pieces of wall for some hungry kissing, nibbles along the long line of Napoleon’s neck. Napoleon returns the favor a time or two himself. Neither of them paying much attention, manage to knock over a respectable number of Illya’s possessions on the way. Joining them on the floor were three shoes, a blue sweater, and a suit jacket.

Once they were in Illya’s bedroom, Napoleon grabbed for Illya’s necktie, slipping the silky fabric through the loop. “You look _so fucking handsome_ when you’re all dressed up,” Napoleon said breathlessly, eyes raking over Illya's messy hair and messier remains of his suit, “But I think I like this look even better.”

“You should see what I am looking at,” Illya said playfully, taking in Napoleon’s reddened mouth and wild hair. His undershirt was thin, almost translucent. Illya’s eyes lingered on the slight bulge in Napoleon’s slim-fitted trousers. “What do you want?” Illya asks, the low tone of his voice betraying his arousal.

Napoleon huffed a small laugh and Illya could only see a sliver of the freckle in his eye this close, blown pupils swallowing up most of the blue as well. “Let’s see. What I _want_. Kissing you,” he demonstrates this with one more, standing on his toes to kiss Illya again, his lips sticky and lingering. “Check. Your tongue...” And Illya obliges this time, leaning down and licking into Napoleon’s mouth for a longer, deeper kiss. Napoleon is a little breathless when he says, “Mmm. _Check_. Oh, your _hands_. I could use some more of you touching me, so let me just...”

Taking a seat at the bed, Napoleon unzips a hidden zipper in the side of his pants and efficiently rolls down the sleeve of his prosthetic leg. He then pulls carefully until it dislodged, leaving his residual limb in a beige sleeve with a single white sock over it. Righting the prosthetic, he placed it to the side of the bed. Napoleon’s hand hesitates for only a second before pushing the sock and liner down. Turning the liner the right way again, he leans over to place it on the bedside table. His residual limb sits over the edge of the bed for only a shred of a second before he's sliding himself back more comfortably.

Illya finishes the many tiny buttons of his shirt and shrugging the shirt off when Napoleon looks up at him and, eyes widening appreciatively, grinned at him. “Well, hello,” Napoleon murmurs, biting his lower lip and taking him in with obvious elevator eyes.

Illya lets him look but can't resist for long, leans down and kisses Napoleon again. He doesn’t think he ever wants to stop kissing his Quartermaster but he still needs his answer for them to continue, so he whispers against Napoleon’s mouth, “What do you want from me, Napoleon?”

Napoleon makes a broken noise at that, closing his eyes as Illya continues to press soft kisses to his lips. He tries to speak, interrupted with kisses, as he asks, “If I say, like.. third base or pitcher/catcher.. would you..” Illya stops, tilts his head back, eyes slightly narrowed as Napoleon continues talking. “know what-- why are you...?”

“ _This_ is most American thing you have said to me,” Illya says incredulously, one eyebrow up toward his hairline. “This, right now. Are you talking about _baseball?_ Why?”

Rolling his eyes, Napoleon’s hands stroke down Illya’s shoulders to his arms as he reaches up to bite Illya’s lower lip. "Let me rephrase,” he said, amusement twitching his lips and he quirks his head slightly. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t desperately want _you_ to fuck _me_ , so if you have condoms _and_ lube... I am very willing, Peril.”

Illya struggles to formulate a response to that, brain overloaded for a moment. His chin tips briefly to his chest as he closes his eyes, mouth curled up and letting his breath out in a gust. He runs his tongue briefly over the heat where he can still feel Napoleon's teeth on his lip before opening his eyes and nodding. "I do," Illya said, thankful more than ever for the supplies in his bedside table. His eyes burn with new determination, a clearly laid out goal in front of him.

Humming, Napoleon grinned and blushed anew at the heated look on Illya’s face. “Do you have any preferences for doing this?” Napoleon asks as Illya turns to root in the side table drawer, glancing between him and where he was searching. The bottle and a few condoms are dropped onto the bed, but Illya drops a condom into Napoleon’s waiting hand.

Illya pauses, then shakes his head slightly. “I am already permitted to have you,” he says, as though this is obvious. “Whatever you are imagining, I think that is what I want.”

“You know, I do have some thoughts for this time...”

Intrigued not only by what Napoleon was imagining but also the hint toward the future, Illya’s fingernail bites into edge of the wrapper of a condom as his brow arches. “Oh?” Illya drops his hand to his groin, pushing his palm against the erection pressing against the front of his trousers. "Please, go on."

Eyes darkening again and grin widening, Napoleon leans back to get more comfortable and holds a hand out. It takes no more than a moment for Illya to slip his own into Napoleon’s, who tugs him closer and threads his fingers through Illya’s.

"I was thinking," Napoleon said, eyes staying on Illya's as he kept pulling, encouraging Illya to kneel over him. "Your hands are _very_ big..."

The aforementioned ‘very big’ hands that Napoleon had mentioned were soon at work doing exactly as requested, one was slowly stroking Napoleon’s dick while the arm propped his leg up and exposed him further. Illya eased him open with two fingers of his other hand inside of a condom, heavily slick with lube. It was entrancing the way Napoleon reacted to Illya’s touch, a red flush all the way down to his chest while his hands were tightly fisted in Illya’s bedspread beneath. His eyes were screwed together tightly, eyebrows arched inward as he occasionally let out a louder, higher-pitched sound when Illya’s fingers curled even a little.

“Okay?” Illya had to ask eventually, just as he did when he’d added the second finger. At Napoleon’s nod, Illya withdrew his fingers and after repositioning them within the condom he was using, eased in the third, slowly, until his fingers were fully seated. His other hand stroking wetly over the length of Napoleon’s trembling erection, having hurried with the lubricant a bit and possibly drenching the bedding beneath them as well.

When Illya had gone to bend his head, intending on taking Napoleon in his mouth as he fingered him open, he had been stopped. “If you do that,” Napoleon had said, chest heaving and shining where Illya had been teasing his nipples with his lips and tongue. “I will not last, Peril. And I _want to._ ”

Something on Illya’s face must have looked a little disappointed because Napoleon added, “Oh, you can still touch me. And next time? You can do whatever you want to me.”

Maybe it was silly, but instead of focusing on the incredible promise of the latter, Illya couldn’t help the joy in his heart at the prospect of the _next_ time, once again. With a soft growl, he had caught Napoleon’s mouth in a bruising, passionate kiss before going right back to work.

Keeping an eye on Napoleon for the right reaction, Illya began to move his fingers inside of him with intent. It took a bit, but eventually he curled his fingers just right and Illya felt a sudden bodily tremble around his fingers as Napoleon let out a breathy shout. He grabbed at Illya blindly, fingertips pressing at his forearm briefly. “Illya, please, _Illya,_ I’m ready I’m ready. _Please,”_ he pleaded, looking down at him with desperation clear in his wet eyes, sweat gathered on his forehead with his dark curls spread out around his head.

Illya remembers the immaculately groomed Napoleon from the office and feels a giddy thrill at this- Illya had gotten his wish. “I like you like this,” Illya confesses, voice thick and rough as he leans down to press a kiss to Napoleon’s mouth. He slipped his fingers out, smiling when the kiss is barely returned by the slightly overwhelmed Napoleon. “Desperate, wanting me.”

Napoleon’s head moves in a minute nod, breathing hard. “I want you,” he said, pulling at Illya. “I _need_ you, Illya _plea_ -,” Napoleon gasps as he feels Illya’s cock slide against his slick hole, “Oh God, _please.._.”

Illya bites the inside of his cheek as his face flames from Napoleon’s broken voice. He moves Napoleon a little, adjusting and repositioning the other man’s legs. Making a considering noise, he leans over and braces himself with one hand. Napoleon’s grabs onto his wrist there immediately, the other grappling at Illya’s thigh under his leg. “Fuck me,” Napoleon begs him one more time before Illya’s restraint can’t take any more.

Illya moves his hips forward slowly, Napoleon’s body almost greedily taking him in, the feeling of agonizingly _good_ pressure around Illya's dick warring with his self-control. Napoleon’s fingernails bite into Illya’s wrist and leg, a guttural sound ripped from his throat before he’s reduced to near-silent gasps as Illya bottoms out.

Breathing carefully, Illya regains his mental faculties slowly and he studies Napoleon, checking in. “Okay?” He said, letting go of Napoleon’s thigh to reach, move a curl from Napoleon’s face.

Napoleon took a moment before nodding, eyes opening. More beads of sweat were dotting his forehead, face, and down the rest of his body. “ _Definitely_ okay, Peril,” he said hazily, eyes glassy as he finally looks up at Illya. “You can move... slowly. You're so fucking _huge_ , God."

Illya falters for a moment, sucking in a sudden breath. "You-" he says roughly, staring at Napoleon for a moment. He wet his lips, looks down and begins to move his hips back. He has to look back up because of the sound Napoleon makes as he slides out. It’s not long before Napoleon is asking him for more, for it to be harder, for him to move faster.

Shallowly thrusting his hips makes Napoleon’s thighs tremble and his grip weakens on Illya's wrist. Deeper, harder movements urge Napoleon to give higher, louder moans, grip tightening again. When Illya shifts his body weight slightly and it changes the angle of his movements, Napoleon’s hand fails up Illya's forearm and he shouts _there_ repeatedly.

Illya knows he's not going to last much longer for this and steadies his weight before trying to find _there_ again. His hand drops to Napoleon’s straining dick, rock hard and curved toward his stomach, and begins to stroke him off again.

“Napoleon,” is all Illya can say, seeing the other man barely manage a nod. His entire body tense, Illya manages to rock into Napoleon’s body for a few more hard thrusts before he comes. He does have to take a moment, the waves of intense pleasure utterly destroying his thought process, before he slides out to Napoleon’s soft moan. He sinks down, wiping away residual lubricant from Napoleon with one hand before mouthing at Napoleon's straining erection encased in a condom. Napoleon lets out a startled moan, hand in Illya's hair. Illya takes no time to tease, sucking hard at the head of Napoleon’s cock while stroking the rest. His thumb does tease at Napoleon’s slick entrance, pressing just barely in. Napoleon’s hips shake as he does, the man himself moaning Illya’s name until he can’t hold back any longer. Napoleon's body curves against the bed as he comes. 

Slowly leaning back up, Illya watches Napoleon come back into himself before he carefully removes both of their condoms- Napoleon lets out a soft noise at the graze of the condom against his oversensitive dick- and tosses them into the waste bin. While a shower was certainly in their near future, Illya didn’t want to get up just yet. He settles next to Napoleon, pulling him off of the sweat and lube-dampened side of the bedspread and into the loose embrace of Illya’s arms.

After they’ve both more or less recovered, Illya leans forward and knocks their foreheads together slightly. “Thank you,” Illya settles on saying, smiling softly. Napoleon lets out a _giggle_ again.

“Thank _you_ , too, Peril,” Napoleon says with a grin. “You know, you surprised me a little, at the end.”

“Was that okay? Couldn’t wait until next time,” Illya said, shrugging the shoulder he wasn’t lying on.

“Oh, it was _definitely_ okay,” Napoleon confirms, tilting his head up for a kiss, but waiting for Illya to do it. Of course, he happily obliged, kissing Napoleon until they both had enough strength to get up for a shower.

As Napoleon goes to stand, Illya offered a gentlemanly shoulder, hand on Napoleon’s waist as they head for the bathroom. Illya's suddenly grateful for the decadent, huge shower in the apartment- it actually had a built-in bench. Napoleon even lets out a whistle when he sees it. Moneypenny had chosen the apartment for him when Illya had shown little interest in doing so, though now he cursed the minimalist style he’d wound up with because it meant no hand-holds if Napoleon had to navigate from room to room if he didn’t have access to his prosthetic.

Halfway through the shower, Illya remembers something. Months before, he had been given a set of temporary crutches after a badly twisted ankle had left him grounded for weeks. He leaves the shower first to fetch them and as Napoleon emerges freshly scrubbed, Illya was adjusting the height of each so that Napoleon could get around the apartment more comfortably. Illya pulls on a pair of clean underwear before pretending to reluctantly allow Napoleon a pair to cover up with as well.

In the kitchen, Napoleon discovers that Illya's dish soap is suitable to clean the liner with, so he'd be able to put it back on safely once it dried. Illya had chosen to stick close to Napoleon, plastered to his back and hands circling his waist, hands together in front. Napoleon had made it clear that he didn't want Illya to let go, anyway. Illya watched over his shoulder as the Quartermaster carefully applied soap to the inside of the liner. Napoleon does explain that it needs to be cleaned regularly to keep his skin healthy. Occasionally, Illya presses a kiss to his neck, tracing the goosebumps that rise under his lips. An idea strikes him and he asks, “Don’t your technicians have access to your office? Your-”

He’s interrupted by a shrill beeping noise from the other side of the apartment. They both look in that direction, recognizing the sound as one of Napoleon’s communication devices. Napoleon frowned. “ _That_ noise is only supposed to happen in an emergency... And _I’m_ the only one who can send it out.”

Illya reluctantly parts from him, letting Napoleon finish cleaning while he hurries to investigate. The noise is loud enough that the closer he gets the more obvious what the exact location is. Leaning over, he quickly sifts through one of the piles of clothing in his bedroom to find Napoleon’s trouser pocket. He can feel the vibration of the tiny, powerful speaker inside the thin, metal pen before he actually finds it, wincing as the sound intensifies as it’s taken out.

Clicking the pen once, it stops making the noise and Illya waits a moment.

There’s a beat before he hears a familiar, slightly staticy voice from the pen say, “ _...Oh. My God._ ”

Illya blinks, squinting down at the pen and twisting it slightly in his hand. “Moneypenny...?

Moneypenny clears her throat. “ _Um... Hellooo, uh, 004._ ”

“Ah! No- wait- Stop!” Masterfully crossing the room with the crutches, Napoleon was at Illya’s side in a moment and his hand clapping over the pen until it was fully covered. He almost lost his balance, Illya grabbing his arm on instinct.

Illya looks confused. “It’s only Moneypenny...?”

Napoleon shakes his head, dropping his chin to his chest briefly. “It’s also a _camera_ , Peril.” he said with a sigh, holding the pen with one hand and pinching his nose with the other. He was smiling, though, shaking his head. “If she's calling this device, that means she is calling from my office, which automatically puts video feed onto that enormous video screen behind my desk.”

Illya can’t help but glance downward, realizing that she’s not only seen him and probably Napoleon both undressed but, knowing Napoleon’s tech, had a very high definition image of the bedroom covered in their clothing, as well as the bed. Illya’s suddenly grateful he had already stripped the bedding. “Ah...”

Napoleon sighs. “Of all the people... ” He released the pen slightly, enough for the speaker and receiver but not enough for the camera. “She probably caught quite the eyeful... didn’t you, Moneypenny?”

“ _That... is correct. Wow. Um. I_ am _alone here, but... This line is secure, yes? Like, extra secure?"_

“It’s my _personal_ channel on my _personal_ tablet, so yes, Gaby. Very secure. Just like my _personal_ office is supposed to be securely _locked_ when I’m not there.”

Gaby let out a snort. “ _Says the brat of a Quartermaster who left MI6 in the middle of the day for a quickie with one of our 00s?_ "

Illya couldn't help a soft chuckle at that, counter to the blush staining Napoleon's cheeks as he glared half heartedly up at Illya. Illya shrugs, unable to stop looking pleased with himself as Napoleon rolls his eyes.

Continuing, Gaby starts to sound a little bored, as though the novelty of the situation has already worn off. " _And I'm guessing you forgot about your meeting with M this afternoon, Solo?_ ” Napoleon's mouth opened, genuine surprise on his face. When he didn’t answer she continued. “ _I expect you’ll both be able to keep your personal and professional lives separate enough that I won’t have to worry about you, yes?_ ”

Napoleon and Illya were wearing the same shamefaced expression at that point. Even Illya, who was not technically in trouble. They both answered with a dutiful, “Yes, Gaby,” with an apology.

“ _Good! Figures, anyway. Well, I rescheduled the meeting when you didn’t show but maybe I’ll just put it off until next week and mark you down as ‘ill’, Solo. I can grab your ‘leg bag’, work laptop and paperwork, if you’d like. Have it sent to yours or... ah, maybe somewhere else?_ ”

Before Napoleon could answer, Illya says, “To mine. And if he has any clothing in office, maybe weekend bag, if you could, Miss Moneypenny,” and he cherishes Napoleon’s blush and resulting smile. “We may both take long weekend, if you can arrange cat sitters.”

Gaby makes an ‘Of Course I Can Are You Kidding Me’ noise before she says. “ _Have a good weekend, boys,_ ” and they respond in kind as Gaby signs off.

Illya tilts his head toward the pen. “Make sure that’s off, please.”

Napoleon looks at him, then clicks the pen and tosses it over his shoulder. It lands somewhere around Illya’s dresser, clattering before rolling underneath. Illya fights a smile, not looking toward the pen before stepping forward slowly, shaking his head. “You should be more careful of my Quartermaster's equipment. He likes me to bring back every piece,” Illya said, curling his hands over Napoleon’s hips.

Napoleon lifts his arms, circling around Illya's neck to pull him down a little closer. “And you know, aside from my lockpicks... you do have the best track record for bringing back intact equipment in all of MI6,” Napoleon murmured, pulling Illya down to steal another kiss. “That’s why I picked you, out of _all_ the 00s that tried to seduce me.”

Letting out a playful, possessive growl, Illya responds with a nip to Napoleon’s mouth. Illya remembers the conversation they'd had in Napoleon's office, hours ago that somehow felt even longer ago. "Didn’t you say I owe you for those two lockpicks?" 

"You do," Napoleon said, looking thoughtful for a moment before returning that radiant smile back to Illya. "And I think I know how you can repay me."

"Mmm, how is this?"

"Well, I think we've got it a little out of order, especially since we’re about to spend a weekend together, but..." Napoleon hesitates, then laughs softly. He’s still smiling but his nose crinkles a little, like he knows he’s saying something particularly funny when he asks, "Dinner?"

Illya hums thoughtfully, one eyebrow lifting a notch. “Something better than football and takeaway, I hope.”

“I don’t know, I think _I_ enjoyed myself, didn’t _you_ , Peril?”

_epilogue, later that weekend._

_Napoleon, half-naked and sprawled on his stomach next to Illya, touches Illya’s arm to get his attention. Once he looks up, Napoleon slides his phone over on the sheets over to him. He doesn’t say anything, just watching and waiting. Illya picks up the phone and sets his book onto his lap. The screen lights up Illya’s face as he squints at it. There’s a window popped up, confirming deletion of an app. When Illya sees which app it is, he can’t delete it fast enough and he feels, ridiculously, retroactively jealous as he drops the phone to the side. His body weight drops onto Napoleon partially, making the other man grunt as Illya leans down to nose at Napoleon’s neck. “Mine,” Illya grumbles, wanting to bite and unable to resist a bit of nibbling. “No dating apps.”_

_“Ah... agreed,” Napoleon murmurs, tilting his head. Illya can’t see his face, but he can hear the indulgent smile in his voice. “Should I... delete all the other hookup apps, too?”_

_Illya pauses. Then, moves to grab for the phone. “You can build yourself new phone,” he says, going to sit up. “This one is tainted, going out window.”_

_Laughing and turning on his side, Napoleon reaches for Illya’s arm and pulls him back down to brace himself above Napoleon. “Just kidding,“ he says, soothing hands stroking up and down Illya’s arms. “So, is ‘lover’ too gauche for you?”_

_Illya shrugged. Words weren’t as important as this, he thought, leaning onto his side more comfortably. His hand rested on Napoleon’s hip, thumb stroking there as he watched Napoleon think._

_“How about...” Napoleon mouth twisted briefly, tilting his head. “Boyfriend? Sweetheart?”_

_Illya pulled until Napoleon was lying against him. “I know what you are to me,” Illya murmured, tilting his head into Napoleon’s hair and smelling his own shampoo, there. “Don’t need word.”_

_Napoleon goes still, making Illya wonder if he said something wrong before Illya can feel a kiss against his collarbone, tiny shivers branch out over his skin from there. “Moy dorogoy_ ,” _Napoleon whispers, pressing his forehead against Illya._

My darling.

_Illya’s grip involuntarily tightens, just a little, as he feels a familiar surge of not-quite-homesickness, but of a deep love for his home country. Combined with his rapidly strengthening affection for this ridiculous man, it feels like the perfect fit. He curls in tighter, holding on to Napoleon. Illya smiles, eyes closing as he echoes the words._

_For all that it had seemed like Illya had been on the brink, on the edge, about to drop... he suddenly knows that he’d fallen a long, long time ago._

_“It took 20 missions,_ exactly _? How on earth could you have guessed that, Miss Moneypenny? How! I was sure it would take at least another dozen, they’re both so bloody stubborn...”_

_“Don’t gamble when you don’t know all the facts, M. Now, I believe you owe me three weeks off. Don’t look for me, I’ll be somewhere sunny.”_

_“Very well. Damn. Oh, but which do you think will pop the question? As I said, they’re both so bloody stubborn, I imagine they’ll expect the other to do it and wait indefinitely.”_

_“Hmmm, let me think...”_

**Author's Note:**

> \- Napoleon has a below-the-knee/BK (transtibial) leg amputation and uses a suction type prosthetic leg.  
> He was injured while working for the CIA and has been an amputee for about 7 years. Taken off the field, he channeled his physical therapy/recovery time into honing his hacking skillz and the CIA decided to support him so they don't 'lose' their asset. In a few years he was running their CIA version of the Q Branch but MI6 trusts him more and gives him better funding.  
> Full disclosure: I am not an amputee. All of my research was from many, many resources on the internet! However, I am not perfect and apologize if this is done in any insensitive way. The story is not about Illya accepting Napoleon "despite" or anything like that, nor does Napoleon need Illya to "fix" him. He's lived with it for nearly a decade, after all! The last third of the story contains the explicit scene. Napoleon's leg is barely mentioned aside from when he removes his prosthetic. His residual limb is not treated in a fetishistic way [that I can see]. 
> 
> \- No violence is explicit in this fic. There is mention of hospitals/doctors/medics/etc but none explicit. A few of the missions have specific things: (1) There are children in this fic kidnapped for ransom, including five small children and 2 babies. Illya and Napoleon help get them home, none are injured but they are not taken care of properly by their captors (they were held only a day or two). It is implied that the babies are underfed. One child uses a wheelchair and it's clear the bad guys destroyed it because they were awful people. (2) There are two separate 'snapshots' featuring Napolen's only two villainous ex-boyfriends/lovers. It is implied that one of them intended to give Napoleon away, like he only saw Napoleon as an object. Gross. Napoleon, defending himself, kills him by stab wound [one prosthesis has a hidden blade]. The other one tries to verbally gross everyone out by talking to Napoleon super familiarly and Gaby off-camera causes him to stop talking. It is not implied whether or not he's alive, after. 
> 
> \- Inspiration!  
> Basically, I saw H.C.'s Hugo Boss ads back in May and my brain went places and then bought a freaking house there. I decided to finish this after Lovesick but then I thought of more Stuff each time I tried to decide it was done! But there's certainly more I could write here. I mean, how does Napoleon afford all of that clothing?!
> 
> -Why doesn't Illya call Napoleon Cowboy?  
> Because, my friends, there may be another version of this posted eventually where Illya is Q instead. And I liked the idea of the 00 getting the nickname from canon while the Q was largely Q or their name.
> 
> \- But where's The REAL Q!!  
> Well, 007 wasn't going to exist in universe but he crept in somehow. Ben Whishaw's Q also exists in this universe... Somewhere. Watching. Waiting. 👀 (In his pajamas.) 
> 
> Thanks for reading! tumblr @wuhnona 💞


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